No sound came, from within the schoolhouse. The little building,
coaxed from a grudging Maharajah, seemed to strain for light and air
between two overlapping, high-walled brick warehouses. Before the
door, in a spot where the scorching sun-rays came but fitfully between
a mesh of fast-decaying thatch, the old hag who had followed Rosemary
McClean lay snoozing, muttering to herself, and blinking every now and
then as a street dog blinks at the passers-by. She took no notice of
Mahommed Gunga until he swore at her.

"Miss-sahib hai?" he growled; and the woman jumped up in a hurry and
went inside. A moment later Rosemary McClean stood framed in the
doorway still in her cotton riding-habit, very pale--evidently
frightened at the summons--but strangely, almost ethereally,
beautiful. Her wealth of chestnut hair was loosely coiled above her
neck, as though she had been caught in the act of dressing it. She
looked like the wan, wasted spirit of human pity--he like a great,
grim war-god.

"Salaam, Miss Maklin-sahib!"

He dismounted as he spoke and stood at attention, then stared
truculently, too inherently chivalrous to deny her civility--he would
have cut his throat as soon as address her from horseback while she
stood--and too contemptuous of her father's calling to be more civil
than he deemed in keeping with his honor.

"Salaam, Mohammed Gunga!" She seemed very much relieved, although
doubtful yet. "Not letters again?"